


Why the Troll Casts no Shadow

by Cramp



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cramp/pseuds/Cramp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story on how Serat Whiteface made his resurrection ankh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why the Troll Casts no Shadow

It is a quiet stretch of beach on the coast of Durotar. It is night and much work has been done to get to this point. It is night, which is the right time for this kind of ritual, the death of the sun holds the promise of rebirth in the morning, and in that promise hides much power.

Serat is naked apart from a tatty loincloth, his pale pelt almost luminous under the light of the moon and his back glows with the light of the fire behind him. He looks to his tools, set carefully beside him, close to hand, and reflects that making the bonfire was probably the most exhausting task he has yet done. Wood does not grow easily in the jealous, hard earth of Durotar and he had been forced to hoard and steal logs and branches wherever he could. But what choice did he have? A shadow hunter without a shadow to dance with is nothing at all.

He touches his broad fingertips to his cheek unconsciously, a sign of his nervousness. He is not wearing his face and that makes him feel more naked than the sea breeze that licks across his sinewy thigh muscles. But he must face himself honestly and openly if the magic is to bind. His tongue flicks against his tusk. There is no one but him, no stern eye to chastise and correct. Any mistake will be upon his shoulders and that makes him shiver.

He stands, back to the roaring fire and he can feel the heat from where he stands, prickling at his spine. He stretches, arching to his full height, drawing his muscles taut, cords of jungle vine that cable down his long limbs and he feels the readiness within. Then he slumps, fingers brushing the sand. He hears the drums in his head. Like with all things, it begins quietly, slowly, gently.

And he begins to dance.

He dances a story, an old story, every movement a sentence, a phrase. He sways, low to the ground, eyes closed as the story is born.

It is a tale from the dawn days of the First People, before Empire and fall. In the beginning, when everything was new, the spirits were small and playful, and they would sneak into a troll’s shadow as he slept and make mischief with his body, for anyone with any sense knows that a shadow is more than just a play of light. The First People grew tired of the games and constructed figures of stick and twine, lures and traps for the curious spirits, baited with offerings and formidable visages. They fed up the spirits on belief and sacrifice and made potent little godlings.

Black-Mouthed Danawi, This Fire That Never Dies. Wide-Eyed San’Thraka, Who Makes the Fish Curious. The secret women’s Totem, that the men were told nothing about, and Hanat, he with the mighty phallus, who the women knew all about, but let the men keep for the sake of their pride.

Small gods who asked for only small offerings.

And now the story gets deeper, and Serat jerks with movement, red eyes opening as he watches his shadow, reading the words in its motions. He can feel his soul emptying as he entwines himself with the tale, pouring his essence into the telling.

Shirvallah, who was all tigers. Hethiss, who slithered and tasted the air. Shango, the Eyes in the Storm. They mastered not only the world - Serat’s legs twist and cut through the air, his panting the only noise despite the thunder of drums in his head – but the ways of the world. Ogoun, red-handed and glorious. Samedi, Master of the Endless Sleep. Their gods grew bigger and no longer asked, but demanded. But that was right and proper, for they were gods and gods must be worshipped.

The dance climaxes, a frenzy of motion, sand thrown into the air as Serat sweeps, twists and leaps. His neck cranes, his back arches to straining point so he can pin his shadow with his gaze, watch it flicker and weave. When he casts his mind aside, it seems to thicken and move of its own accord, like it is less an absence and more a thing. The story is like a totem, a lure, a focus.

His hand darts out, snatching up one of the wooden stakes from the ground and before he has even let himself think of what he is doing he leaps, fist stabbing down. A shriek and it is done, the stake is embedded in the shoulder of his shadow. He is white knuckled, gasping for breath, a sharp throb in the meat of his own shoulder. Beneath him, the shade writhes and squirms, pinned beneath the glossy wood. It tries to reach, to grasp the offending stake but its black fingers slip from the wood like water on wax. Serat pants, his shadow is trapped, but this is only the start.

Three more stakes to set, three more nails of pain in his muscles; his shoulders and hips. It is like nothing else he has felt before, a wounding of soul not skin, but he knows that it is not the end of the pain he must endure to succeed.

He sits back, his shadow screaming in front of him, crucified to the sand and Serat takes up the penultimate tool he has readied for this day. A bone knife, its edge serrated like a saw. Once the thigh bone of a panther, one of those inky black stalkers who trode the line between shade and solid death, it was real to both. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his yammering heart and scoops up the leg of his shadow, gripping it firmly like he might the limb of a pig he was about to joint.

Gritting his teeth, he saws across the inky darkness, just below his foot. He winces, he levers his mouth open, howling at the moon. He is sheathed in sweat, and his body is wracked by shivers. One foot and then the other, he does not pause between the two, not wanting to lose his nerve. The soles of his feet bleed, as if he had flayed them, but it is done, he stands separate from his shadow.

There is achievement in that, and he should be pleased with his accomplishment. But he knows that the worst is yet to come. The knife drops from his fingers and he curses his shaking hand as he picks up the last implement.

He hugs the object to his chest, lets the warmth of it seep into his chest. A golden ankh, that small representation of a man, arms outstretched, and eternity. It is made of metal, of course, for it is meant to endure where his body cannot. He holds it in both hands, suddenly aware of how small it is, almost delicate in his large, powerful fingers. What if it is not enough? There were stories enough of those who had lost their shadows to know that it was a fate not worth surviving. But he had long since crossed the point of no return.

He lifts the ankh high above his head and offers a quick prayer to whichever loa might be listening. He drops one hand to the chest of the still struggling shadow, feeling the ghost of fingertips brush across his own chest. There, the pounding of his heart, his centre.

He stabs down, right on the heart of his shadow. A throb in the air, the fire behind him extinguished with the impact, a wrenching pain, like he is being split in two. He has no breath to scream, can only collapse to the sand, hand locked around the ankh in a death grip. Long moments pass, with only the swallow, ragged breaths of Serat as he puffs out against the sand. Desperate breaths that turn into a weak laugh. There is no wriggling beneath him, no silent outrage at the trap laid and closed. He pulls the ankh to his face. It looks no different to his eyes, but he imagines he can feel a thrumming potential in the metal.

Has he succeeded? There is only one way to tell, and he is not about to waste all his efforts on a foolish test. If it has worked than he will know only when it counts the most. He crawls slowly back towards the fire, clutching his prize in one hand. He is mindful of his bleeding feet and the aches in his soul and he moves like an old man, mistrustful of his own body.

He has done a dangerous thing, binding his shadow. He links a chain from his pack through the hoop of the ankh, wearing it like a medallion. Should someone get a hold of it, then he would be utterly at their mercy, in danger of becoming their zombie or worse. Nor would he be able to read the future in his dances any more, only hope to get fragments from watching others.

But he had deemed it worth the risk. He had sensed danger in the weave of his destiny and the foes he had hunted were growing more powerful, not so quick to fall for his hexes and curses.

Serat wraps his cloak around his shivering body, waiting for the sun, and rebirth.

And that is why the troll casts no shadow.

 

 


End file.
